


Boxcars

by etherati



Series: Kink Bingo Stuff [5]
Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: BtB verse, M/M, Oral Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-29 06:57:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3886645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etherati/pseuds/etherati
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Gentlemen, don't get caught–' ...Laurie watches, but it's never that clean or simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boxcars

**Author's Note:**

> For Kink Bingo(prompt: 'voyeurism'), and set in the same au as Between the Brushstrokes. Spoilery for that one, so read it first if you haven't!

*

She slams the sliding door open on long-rusted runners, clambering up onto the boxcar's high floor with all the grace of a drunk elephant on benzos. She's worn down to threads – doesn't really want to go into the whys of it, how she'd almost been caught at the last checkpoint and had had to leg it through six miles of urban forest and four of the regular kind before she was sure she'd lost them, so she's grateful to find that the other occupants of their little motel on wheels are already asleep.

Asleep and positioned suspiciously under the covers, frozen in what looks an awful lot like the Official Discreet Blowjob Position.

Maybe not asleep after all.

"God," she says, exhaustion stripping away any filters she might have had left. "I am way too tired to give a shit, guys." She walks past them, deliberately giving no berth, and drops to sit on her own mattress, work her boots. She could swear she hears her feet actually sigh in relief when the miserable things come off. "Though where you find the energy, I have no idea."

One mattress away, there's no verbal response but there is motion, a dipping in the blanket where a head has dropped back down to its task. A scandalized noise, something that sounds like words, chastisement, then the sound of an open palm impacting skull. Laughter.

"Oh, come on," she hears Dan say, voice a little high, and he shucks the blanket halfway off of them defiantly. "The world as we knew it is basically gone, we're on the lam here, and you're still worried about... does it even matter anymore?"

"It really doesn't," Laurie mumbles, flopping onto her side and pulling the blankets over her shoulders. The rest of her words are distorted by a luxuriant yawn: "Not like you've been keeping it a secret anyway."

She hears Walter sputter. "Not the same," he says, eyes fixed on the ceiling of the car, and what she can see of his face is brilliantly red. He's so old to be blushing like that, so hard-edged and stony, reacting like some shy teenager caught parking. It's a little endearing, even if it looks completely ridiculous. "Not the same as-"

"It is when you've got my imagination," she slurs, and Dan laughs again, nuzzling into shadow. Walter goes even redder. "Really, I can't even keep my eyes open here. I'll be passed out long before he gets y'off, if that's what you're worried about."

No immediate response, and Walter looks like he's only just managing to not bolt.

"Because, you know," she says, and then drops her voice a register, spins it through broken glass. " _Perverted. Disgusting_."

The mortification kindles up into defiant anger almost instantly, but it never gets a chance to form words. Laurie can pinpoint the exact moment when Dan swallows him down again, a perfectly timed distraction, because it's like watching a time-lapse video of a flower closing for the night, sealing itself off; the fifty yard stare becomes a hundred, becomes a thousand, expression locking down as if pleasure were something to be endured only, never enjoyed.

Hopefully it's just an act, because otherwise Dan is seriously wasting his time.

Then he whimpers, just a tiny noise, and she can hear Dan mumbling encouragement, words soothing and distorted around... and god, that's hot, because he's trying to _talk around Rorschach's cock_  and she can almost see the way his mouth would be wet and red and stretched, and still smiling, always smiling.

She squeezes her thighs together; she can feel her own dampness even through the worn denim, and damn it but she's never going to get to sleep like this.

Laurie closes her eyes deliberately, pushing her face into the side of the thin, ragged pillow. It doesn't do much to muffle the sounds ( _shhh, it's okay_  and  _relax_ and a tight grumbling that breaks off into an honest-to-god  _moan_ , christ) and after a minute she cracks her eyes back open.

Less than a foot in front of her nose, Walter stares resolutely at the ceiling, not looking at Dan and especially not looking at her, breathing tightly through his teeth.

She remembers one night in their early days, stupid innocent days, running across Nite Owl and Rorschach on patrol somewhere near the edges of the Redlight district. Rorschach had muttered and groused about the prostitutes and those patronizing them the entire time Nite Owl'd spent explaining what they were doing there out of their normal patrol area. By the time it was done, he'd moved on to all fornicators everywhere, grotesque silhouettes in windowframes that no one would notice unless they were looking for them – body stiffer and more crunched inward than his words, hanging at Nite Owl's shoulder.

Under the suspended light, Walter squeezes his eyes shut, bites back on a sound that still rumbles dully in his throat. So much makes sense, now.

She can see Dan's hands slide up his sides, teasing over shadow-cast muscle and skin. But Walter's still ramrod-straight, stoic through his flush, unmoving.

"Come on," Dan murmurs, voice sounding sloppy and wet from under the cavern of the blanket. "I know you like this."

"Can't–"

"Yes, you can," Dan says, and then there's a slow, slick noise that curls Walter's head back against the mattress until his shoulders nearly leave it, is joined by a desperate cry that reminds Laurie of the time she'd been stabbed.

It's immediately stifled, but god. She'd had no idea Dan was already so good at this – had assumed he'd been learning as he went, but she's given enough blowjobs to know a good one when she sees it. Hears it, whatever.

Maybe it's easier to learn, when it's someone you really–

Laurie frowns. Some selfish impulse that she probably inherited wants her to objectify this, laugh about needing popcorn, lean forward to try to see what's going on under the drape of the blanket. She finds herself staring at Walter's face instead, past all the bruises and scrapes and the forty-some years of wear, like there's something to puzzle out.

And his 'you're being watched' instincts are obviously still strong even this far distracted, because he turns his head, locks her eyes in place with his own.

Long seconds pass, brown on blue; it's like he's looking for something and she's almost ashamed for not knowing what it is.

"Rorschach?" Dan asks, quiet, muffled against flesh, and it's so jarring to hear him say that name now but old habits must die hard. "Is something wrong?"

"Miss Juspeczyk-"

"Oh," she says, laughing; it's been weeks since he's been so formal, and the moment needs breaking. "So I'm 'miss juspeczyk' again?"

"What you are," Dan says, louder, "is a lousy voyeur." He laughs, knocking the blanket back off of his head, baring that smiling, swollen mouth; pale freckled thighs and tangle of brambly red, disappearing under pinstripes. "I mean, goddamn."

Laurie bites her lip; tracks with just her eyes, following lines of tension from Walter's face down the hard, neat planes of his body and back again. When she responds, she doesn't bother masking her distraction. "What, am I supposed to be seen and not heard?"

"Neither, ideally," but she can tell Dan's not really serious, ducking to lick a wet line up the underside of Walter's cock. It sets him to squirm and clutch at Dan's forearms, body curling in on itself like it could hide away behind nothing, this hard, time-beaten scrap of a man who, for all his ridiculous amount of flaws, has never hidden from anything.

Except for her. She rubs one hand along the inseam of her jeans, heavy.

"But given where we are, that's not..." Dan trails off with a groan, fingers digging into Walter's hips, his own jerking helplessly against the mattress. "...god. That's a little unrealistic."

Walter makes a panicked noise, nothing sharp or immediate; just a simmer finally roiling over. Too much, too  _weird_ , she can hear it in the tone, but when Dan reaches up to run one broad hand down Walter's neck and tilt his head up, meet his eyes, it's like all the strangeness evaporates and this is just where they are now, and it's okay.

Dan takes him back into his mouth, sliding wet all the way down. 

The tension snaps, and Walter rolls his head back, groans openly, the sound covered in rusty edges and painful, but it's honest. It leaves a different face in its wake, and the transformation is startling, from the stiff miserable enduring bastard she could still almost see the mask on to... this, whatever it is, and no matter how hard she tries to picture it the ink doesn't want to stay.

Then he's moving, bracing his arms on the mattress and rocking his hips up on every downstroke, rutting into Dan's mouth like he'd never known what an inhibition was, and Dan's crooning adoration around his mouthful and his hands are everywhere at once and she  _remembers that_.

Ten years. A lifetime.

They're not paying the world at large enough attention to notice when she moves under the blanket, unbuttons the jeans, slips her hand down to rock two fingers against herself. They move wet and easy, and she takes a moment to press them up inside and wonder if they've ever done _that_ , if they've ever buried into each other and felt that hot pulse beating from the inside out–

–and Dan's so sweet about that, she remembers, the way he makes it feel like he's pushing in with all the reverence and affection in the world, everything he has to give flooding in with him–

"Daniel," Walter says, like she's heard him say a dozen times at a dozen meetings and busts, a slip of the tongue he never seemed to catch himself on. She's only just starting to be able to read the nuances. His hand settles into Dan's hair, shaky. " _Daniel._ "

Dan reaches up, snags the hand from his head and winds it into a steadying grip almost like a handshake; surfaces just long enough to say "I've got you," and oh god, he's–

He's silent, like he is with all things, but his face is something of neither mask nor man, and it's like meeting a stranger in the dim passion of moonlight.

*

"Said you'd be passed out," he says, only halfway actually accusatory, the other half drifting on what must be a mighty cloud of endorphins. Dan laughs, just as lost, one hand slipping through Walter's hair like an absolution. 

Laurie just shrugs, with the shoulder she's not lying on. "Well, pardon me for being easily distractable," she says, and Dan laughs harder, pillowing his head on Walter's stomach. 

"You should sleep," she adds, serious, and she almost wants to reach over and put her hand where Dan's had been, card through the dirty grey-edged hair and say  _it's okay, I know who you are now and it's okay, your secret's safe_  but then common sense reasserts itself. She pulls the blanket up higher around her shoulders, rearranges herself on the pillow, prepares to follow her own advice.

In time, they drift off, exactly as they are, no move made to cover up or disguise the situation – in a locked car with no windows, there's really nothing here to hide from.

*

They don't address it the next day, at least not with words and all their dissonant convolution. There's just a quietness over breakfast, a silence more comfortable than not, and Rorschach passes Laurie the pan for seconds without her needing to ask, handing it across the fire to where she's leaned sideways against Dan's legs.

There's never time to really understand – always running for their lives from one mob or another, and the demands on their energy and survival never stop – but when Laurie puts her hand on Rorschach's shoulder to call his attention or give direction mid-raid he doesn't startle anymore, doesn't shift out from under it and sidle away. He just lets it rest there, as the words drift rambling and quiet between them, like all entreaties whispered under cover of darkness and allowed to evaporate away with the dawn.

*


End file.
